Hunger

fury and frustration. And it stopped as suddenly as if someone had yanked the plug from a stereo.
    The monsters glared at Sam and Astrid, as though they were to blame for the silencing.
    Sam cursed softly.
    “Walk backward. Down the hall,” Sam ordered. “They’ll have to come at us one by one and Pete won’t be in the line of fire.”
    “Sam…”
    “Not really a good time for a debate, Astrid,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “Back slowly away.”
    She did. He followed, one foot directly behind the other, arms up, his mutant’s weapons at the ready.
    But no way he’d get them all if they came. No way. He could get a few, maybe, if they could even be burned. How did you burn a creature made of magma?
    Step by step till they were halfway down the hall. Ten feet. Fifteen. The monsters would have to come at him down that hallway. That gave him all the advantage he was going to get. Pete was out of the direct line of fire.
    “Call him again. Louder this time.”
    “He doesn’t always respond.”
    “Try.”
    “Pete,” Astrid shouted, fear giving volume to her voice. “Petey, wake up! Wake up, wake up!”
    Through the doorway Sam saw the floating creatures, all those that didn’t have wings anyway, suddenly land with convincing weight on the floor. The floorboards jumped from the impact.
    The six-winged creature was first. Fast as a dragonfly it zoomed straight for Astrid.
    A scorching green-white light shot from Sam’s hands. The winged thing burst into flame. But it already had too much momentum.
    Sam dropped, reached back to yank Astrid down, found that she had already ducked. The flaming corpse, wings shriveled like burning leaves, blew over their heads.
    Mary Terrafino blundered into the hallway. “What is happening!”
    “Mary! Back! Backbackback!” Sam yelled.
    Mary jumped back into her room as the mustard-colored, eyeless dog with antennae attacked, feet clicking and scrabbling on the hardwood.
    It had two tubes on its head. Sam was sure it hadn’t hadthem just moments earlier.
    Something pale blue shot from the tubes. Slime covered one of Sam’s hands, thick as oatmeal, sticky as rubber cement.
    With the other hand, Sam fired again. The thing burned, slowed, but did not stop.
    And now all the nightmares were pushing and shoving to get through the door, jostling for the chance to attack, and then—
    Then they were gone.
    Simply gone.
    All but the still-sizzling remains of the six-winged bug and the goo-spraying canine. Astrid rushed into Little Pete’s room. Sam was only a step behind. Little Pete was sitting up in bed, eyes open, unfocused.
    Astrid threw herself onto the bed and put her arms around him.
    “Oh, Petey, Petey,” she cried.
    Sam crossed quickly to the window. The curtain that had been singed was now burning. He yanked at it, pulled it down to stomp on it, and in the process knocked a shelf full of nesting dolls to the floor. Sam stamped the fire out. One foot crushed one of the gaily painted red nesting dolls. The outer doll splintered. The doll nestled within rolled free into the flame.
    Sam stamped it all out.
    “You have a fire extinguisher?” he asked. He was trying to wipe the mucousy substance from his hand and not having much luck. “Just to be safe, we should—”
    But then, through the window he saw something almost as frightening as the monsters. There was a girl standing across the street. She was gazing up at him.
    She had huge dark eyes, and an abundance of brown hair pulled back into a ponytail.
    The girl from his dream.
    Sam ran from the room, tumbled down the steps, and burst out onto the street.
    The girl was nowhere to be seen.
    Sam ran back inside to face a terrified Mary and Astrid, who, to his amazement, was taking notes on a pad of paper even as she hugged her brother.
    “What in the—” Sam began.
    “They were adapting, Sam,” Astrid interrupted urgently. “Did you see? They were changing as we watched them. Altering their physical shapes. Evolving.”
    She scribbled, wiped tears from her face, and scribbled some more.
    “What is going on?” Mary Terrafino asked in an abashed, diffident whisper, like she was intruding.
    Sam turned to her. “Mary. You don’t talk about this.”
    “It’s him, isn’t it?” Mary asked, looking at Little Pete, who was yawning now and beginning to drift back to sleep. “There’s something about him.”
    “There are a lot of things about him, Mary,” Sam confessed wearily. “But it stays between